As the World Turns
by Purple-Rosie
Summary: Without love, there is no purpose. Without purpose, there is no life. But to be without someone to share your purpose with, that is the saddest thing of all. I am always with you... Direct sequel to Daddy. OneShot. No pairings. Indirectly  ... 's POV


Hello, Everybody!

This is a direct sequel to _Daddy, _and therefore an indirect sequel to _Brothers in Spirit._ It is past seven in the morning, I have written these out of sequence, and my neck is so stiff that I probably will not move again for another two days, but! It. Was. Worth it. I'm almost more proud of this than _They Walk in Shadows._

In my head!cannon, {…}'s un-official name is now Galahad Cross. So there. Also, Phoebe gets her name from Charmed. Yes, clichéd, kinda, but oh well. Personally, I can't see Hanna's daughter having any other name.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's name nor any of the character/locations therein. I do, however, own Phoebe, her descendants, her mother (apparently), and the story.

* * *

As The World Turns

_I, Hanna Falk Cross, being of sound mind and body, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will and Testament. In the event of my death, should my daughter, Phoebe Patricia Cross, survive me, being under the age of eighteen years, full custody is awarded to her godfather, my brother, Galahad Cross…_

She is thirteen when her father dies.

He sits with her as they listen to the man in the navy blue suit read his best friend's, no, his _brother's_ will. Holds her hand, which she squeezes almost painfully tight. Drives her back to the now-empty house. Hugs her close and rocks her back and forth while she sobs into his jacket until she passes out. He wishes he could cry; wishes his tear ducts still worked. Not just because his brother is dead, not just because he wants more than anything to mourn him, but also because he has never felt less human. He cannot cry for Hanna. And therefore, he cannot cry along with Hanna's daughter.

But it's okay, she says. Because she knows he'd cry if he could.

As per Hanna's wishes, he raises her; along with 'Uncle' Conrad and 'Aunt' Toni and 'Uncle' Veser and 'Papa' Ples and "Uncle' Lamont and 'Grandpa' Worth. They all raise her. But they have their own lives to lead as well. His revolves solely around her, just as it had around her father. And besides, he's her favorite, he tells him.

He watches her grow from a sweet little girl into a beautiful young woman. A lady. Because that's what she is. And the spitting image of her father to boot. Her magic, he notices with a pang of paternal worry in his gut, is also of her father's making; though she forgoes runes in favor of incantations after a few years. She has become a very powerful witch, something her father would be proud of. He knows _he _certainly is. He just wishes she'd be more careful.

It is at the height of her power that she decides to do something he does not quite fully understand. For years, she has been studying something in particular, but she has never told him what. He worries, of course he does, but he chooses to let her do what she feels she needs to do. She's a Cross, after all, and Crosses are notorious for things like this, apparently. One night, just after her twenty-fifth birthday, she clears away everything in her living room and brings out a dusty old tome he never knew she had.

"I found it!"she tells him. "I finally found it!" And her face lights up in a grin so much like her father's that he can't help but smile back at her. She sets up her book and brings out Hanna's old hammer, holding it reverently in her hands. "All I needed was a piece of him."

She wants him there in the room with her, as a fail-safe, she says, in case anything should go wrong. He doesn't know what that means because he doesn't know what she's doing, but he agrees none-the-less because it's _her_ and he would never let her do something potentially dangerous without some sort of supervision. Even if he still knows jack about magic.

She begins her spell with a circle of candles. He stands in the corner, well out of her way but close enough to get to her quickly if need-be. As she casts, her eyes glow an electric blue and it mimics his own eyes rather eerily. The candles extinguish themselves, one by one, and the smoke that is released hovers in the air around her; pulling at her fiery hair - just like her father's – and tugging on her long skirt. All at once the smoke curls and gathers at her abdomen, twisting itself into a kind of spiral, which is sucked into her body like a whirlpool and leaves behind a bright red glow on her skin.

Her eyes fade and she collapses with a cry, holding herself and cursing, "Christ, it _burns!"_

In an instant he is at her side to catch her as she falls. As he holds her close to his cold chest, she lets out a weak laugh. Her hands move to pull her shirt out of the way and a mark like a burn or an angry, pink tattoo is revealed on the pale flesh of her stomach. A rune. One he has never seen before in his un-life.

"I did it. It worked." She laughs again and throws her arms around his neck in delight. He is confused until she explains to him what she has done. It is a binding spell, she tells him, one that works on the principle of three. The son of the daughter of her one-day son; three more generations. Three more, until Hanna's soul is called back to Earth. Reincarnated as the son of the daughter of her unborn son.

She asks him if he will stay, if he will watch over them all until the binding is complete. She asks if he will be there when her father, his brother, is reborn. All he can say is yes.

Six years later she lies in her hospital bed, asking to see only him. The birthing has been incredibly hard on her, he can see it, and he has to swallow back a lump in his throat as he sits beside her. She looks at him and smiles sadly. "I didn't know," she says. "I didn't know that it came with a price. Guess I should have listened to Dad a little more, huh?" And the way she says it, he knows that she is dying.

He just doesn't want it to be true. Too young, much too young. Just like her father.

She squeezes his gloved hand, tells him she loves him. She makes him promise that, no matter what, he'll be in her child's life. Hanna, named for his grandfather. "You're his godfather, too, now," she says.

He was always her favorite.

Her eyes close and her hand goes lax in his and once again he wishes he could cry. He leans forward and presses his dry, dead lips to her forehead. He tells Phoebe Cross (now Drake) goodbye for the last time.

He is not allowed to see his newest godchild. Her husband, for whatever reason, has never liked him and refuses to let him anywhere near the boy. The man is angry at him, jealous of his closeness with Phoebe; that he was the one she wanted to see in her dying moments. The man hates that she gave their child a 'girl's name' and blames him for it. Blames him for everything. The man says he is a freak of nature, an abomination. And so he leaves.

But he still keeps his promise.

He watches from afar, making sure that the boy, Hanna, grows up safe and sound. His heart hurts to see her child turn out so very different from her, different from her father. Aside from the burnt red hair, he looks nothing like either of them, and instead is boxy, angular, too much like the husband. The boy becomes a man and with each passing year is less and less like the Crosses that make up his genetic history. There is no laughter, no smiling, no childlike enthusiasm or thirst for adventure. The boy is a clone, a doppelganger of the father.

Had he not made a promise, he would have left the little disappointment to his own devises long ago. But it's still her son, and he will not abandon her flesh and blood, Hanna's – the first Hanna – flesh and blood. Even if neither seems to be prominent.

Decades come and go and soon the boy takes a wife of his own, whom he likes about as much as he liked Phoebe's husband. He misses Phoebe. He misses Hanna. He misses them both so much. But while the second Hanna, the fake Hanna, is nothing like the namesake, he is thrilled to see that the daughter produced is almost identical to _her. _Even her name is the same, ironically; named by her father for the mother he never knew.

He thinks that maybe it _is _her, especially when she smiles, when she laughs. And when he hears her speak as he keeps a silent vigil he can almost picture her hugging onto his leg and mispronouncing his name, just like before.

He cannot help himself; he has to make contact with this one, keep this one safe. He starts following just a little more closely, starts watching just a little more carefully. She reminds him so much of her grandmother.

There is a carnival, sometime around her fourth birthday, and she and her father go together. But the father doesn't seem to care. There is a cell phone glued to the man's face and it starts to piss him off when the father just up and ignores the girl's existence. And then the bastard walks away completely, leaving her by herself next to a drinking fountain.

He watches the man go, waiting until he can no longer see him, before stepping out from his hiding place and striding over to her. He kneels beside her as she looks around for the parent that might not be coming back for her. He fights back the urge to gather her into his arms and embrace her. He asks her where her father is, calling her 'little one' just like he used to with his goddaughter. And when she looks at him he can see that her eyes are a stunning blue. Just like Hanna's. Just like Phoebe's.

"He's not here yet," she says quietly, and it catches him off-guard the way she says it. "But it's okay." She smiles up at him, dazzlingly precious. She reaches up to wrap her tiny arms around his neck and pulls herself as close to him as she can. "It's okay because _you're_ here. You've always been here, just like you promised."

If the dead could weep he would do so then and there because it's _her! _It's her and he feels like the years of waiting and watching haven't been in vain after all and he wishes he could just take her with him but he knows he can't. Instead, he hugs her back, fiercely, lovingly, protectively. He gives her a gentle kiss on the temple as he pulls away. He doesn't want to, he really doesn't, in fact, he's _loathe_ to, but he's spotted her father walking back in their direction and, as much as he doesn't want to give her up, he also doesn't want to get arrested for being a creeper or attempted kidnapping or something.

The father comes over, phone finally put away. The man who looks nothing like a Cross reaches down and grabs the girl's arm, sweeping her away before they can say a proper goodbye. As he watches them go, she keeps her eyes locked onto his, reaching back like she wants him to come with her. But he can't. Not now, anyway. So all he can do is raise one hand in a sort of motionless wave. A gesture of 'I'll see you later.'

He makes sure to see her whenever he can after that.

Unfortunately, it still isn't very often; she is sent to an all-girls boarding school after junior high and he is forced to stay away. He can feel his shriveled heart breaking.

Apparently, boarding school really does nothing to hinder relationships, because by the time she is out and finished with college, she is unmarried and pregnant. He does his best to make sure she has everything she needs. He sends her little care packages, things for her unborn baby. He knows that she knows who they're from. He also knows that he should be upset with her predicament, but she has a well-paying job and a nice house, so all is not lost. Her parents, on the other hand, disown her. Which seems to suite her, and secretly him, just fine. Besides, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't just the slightest bit anxious.

He wants desperately to be there for her when the baby is born, but without being an actual family member he is not permitted to go near her. He considers trying to sneak in for a while, but has to settle for wandering past the maternity ward in hopes of catching a glimpse when he realizes that sneaking in would just be a bad idea all around.

He is able to visit her once after she is released from the hospital. They talk, and it feels almost like nothing has changed. She offers to let him hold her son, but he declines – he finds it just a little bizarre, considering. She understands, though, and tells him that the binding won't be completely intact until the boy is approximately thirteen. Until then, he is just a normal child, named Hanna, once again.

He stays with them that night and she falls asleep on the couch next to him, refusing to go to bed so long as she is able to stay awake and talk to him. Her head rests on his thigh just like it did when she was her original self. He smiles the whole time, stroking her bright red hair in a soothing manner. Just before she drifts off, he hears her murmur, "You know you're godfather again, right?" And he chuckles to himself as her breathing lulls him into sort of trance.

Years pass. He visits her unbelievably often - nearly every day - but is afraid to make contact with the boy. He doesn't quite know why. Nerves, he supposes. If it really is Hanna, the real Hanna, then he wants to make sure that the spell has solidified before he talks to him. If it isn't…He doesn't allow himself to think about that possibility. After all, Phoebe came back, didn't she?

The boy is twelve when she tells him that the binding has worked.

He stands outside the schoolyard gate, leaning up against a car to look as though he is waiting to pick someone up. In a way, he is, but he knows that unless he looks like he has a legitimate reason to be there then someone will inevitably think he is a pedophile. Not many normal people tend to hang around staring at kids all day. He checks his watch, both to appear occupied and to see if the minute hand has gone any faster yet. Finally, finally, the bell rings and people begin to pour out of the building.

He keeps his eyes trained for any sign of red as he scans the crowd of students eagerly heading for the busses. _There!_ Hanging back, away from the throng of his shouting, hitting, rambunctious classmates, stands a boy with a mass of copper curls. His skin is pale and spattered with dark freckles. A pair of thick, black glasses are perched precariously atop his nose.

He wants to go over to him, to speak to him, anything. But he is struck dumb and immobile as memories long held at bay come flooding out at him. There is no question, that boy is an exact replica of Hanna Falk Cross, of his brother, only much younger than he had ever known him. So he just stands there, still as a board, and observes.

At first, it appears as though the boy means to just get on the bus with the rest of the children. But then the boy takes a step backwards, letting himself be pushed aside and left forgotten by the school. The child looks around him, seemingly confused with his surroundings. Or perhaps just zoning out. He chuckles to himself; Hanna was always good at zoning out.

Almost as if he were heard, the boy looks over in his direction, locks those blue eyes onto his own glowing ones. He panics a little, unsure of what to do. He moves to possibly get closer, possibly to get farther away, he's not sure, but the moment it seems he's leaving he hears a shout of "hey, mister!" and looks back to find the boy jogging up to him.

The reincarnation of his brother stops right in front of him, panting slightly from the physical strain on such a lanky body. Hanna, the newest Hanna, quite possibly the original Hanna, looks him dead in the face. The expression the boy wears is identical to the one that Hanna wore when he first showed up at the redhead's apartment. The boy asks if he knows him.

He doesn't know what to say, really. He has been watching over this boy's family, the Cross family, for five generations now. He knows his mother, knew his great grandmother and most importantly… he knew his great, great grandfather. And this is what he tells him.

The boy blinks, slow and deliberate, thinking. "You're my godfather, aren't you?" he asks at length.

He tells him that he supposes he is. As he speaks, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bundle of frayed velvet, well tended for over the years. He unwraps the fabric and gently holds its contents in his hands. A hammer. Worn and dented and over a hundred years old, but still in one piece. The runes inscribed upon it are even still just visible. He holds it out the boy, who takes it delicately and weighs it in one palm. Gingerly, almost nostalgically, the boy runs his fingers across the splintering wood of the handle.

Then the boy looks up and grins and he can see braces on those teeth. "You've been waiting for me all this time?" he asks. At first glance, it seems like the child is asking how long he'd been standing there in the parking lot. But there is an underlying current that is tinged with something that makes his heart leap.

He nods, giving a soft smile that he just cannot keep from his lips. "For longer than you know."

Hanna - maybe, possibly – rubs at the back of his neck in an awkward fashion. "Well, then I hope I live up to your expectations." The grin returns.

He smiles just a little wider and puts his hand on the child's back to guide him in the direction of Phoebe's house. The two of them get only about five feet before the boy turns and flings a set of skinny arms around his waist and buries his freckled face into his coat – still the same one from so long ago. Patched and repaired.

"It's really great to see you again, Galahad." Hanna sighs into his chest, voice muffled and hinting at a huge new grin.

He places one hand on top of Hanna's – because that's who it is, Hanna Falk Cross, reborn – messy copper hair and wraps him into a hug. He closes his eyes and just stands there, embracing his brother, his godson, his _friend_ for the first time in decades.

"It's good to see _you_, Hanna."

"I missed you, man."

"I know. I missed you too."

* * *

Musical Muses:

The Lord of the Rings Musical (London Cast) – The Road Goes On

Imogen Heap – Let Go


End file.
